


Horseradish.

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Dirk Gently - Douglas Adams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1625492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a London bar, a few loose ends are having a pint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horseradish.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for leah k

 

 

"Seriously. Warm beer. What the hell?" John said, staring morosely at his brew.

"Oh ah," the next guy over at the bar agreed.

"My mead is unsatisfying," said the guy on the other side of John.

"It's not mead, you knob," said the bartender.

John downed the beer anyway, fighting the urge to swoop on people. "I don't get England. I'm sorry, but I don't."

"Oh ah."

"Midgard is all the bloody same."

The bartender gave him the peace sign backwards. Whatever.

John resettled his elbows, tapped his glass for a refill, and tried not to roost. "Keep dreaming I'm an eagle," he muttered.

"Oh ah?"

"The eagle is a mighty animal."

"Eagles are scavengers," said the bartender. "Eat dead fish. Why the hell would you want to make a garbage-eater your national animal anyway?"

"Yeah, well--lions don't even live in England! What the hell kind of sense does that make?"

"No sense at all," said the old guy.

"You're all cut off," the bartender said.

The big guy slammed down his glass, splashing the rest of his beer over the bar and John. "I demand more mead!"

"Kiss my arse," the bartender said, heading down the bar and sulking in the chair in the corner.

"Nice one," John said to the old guy.

"Oh ah," the old guy said.

"MEAD!" shouted the big guy.

"It's not even mead, dipshit!"

"This may have seen a horse, but not a bee," the old guy said.

"Right. Out, the lot of you." The bartender flipped his hands at them angrily.

John rolled his eyes.

"Mead, slave! I am your god!" The big guy threw his glass at the back mirror, splitting a huge crack across its face.

The bartender freaked out. "Oh, my *GOD*! Out! Out!"

"I am your god! I will be obeyed!" the big guy raged.

John sighed and slid off his chair, swooping out the door and landing on his chin outside. "Fuck," he muttered.

"Hard business, flying," the old guy said. He bent down and gave John a hand.

"*Fuck*," John said with feeling.

Inside, the big guy was smashing up the bar. There were sirens in the distance, getting closer in a hurry.

"Yes, a very tricky business," the old guy said, walking up into thin air.

Things just hadn't made any damn sense in weeks. Not since he crashed his plane and started dreaming about eagles. "Fuck," John said, resignedly. He hated England anyway. He should go home, get a gas station, maybe a bait store... that sounded so good he did a little shuffling hop and tried to perch on a stoop, which didn't so much work.

Fucking England.

The end.

 


End file.
